If I never asked, would you tell me?
by marinoa
Summary: It all began when a French boy found a bench and an English boy sitting on it. FrUk AU.


**If I never asked, would you tell me? **

Arthur was sitting on a bench when he saw a young boy coming towards him.

The bench was perfect, wooden and comfortable, and it was in a perfect place, having a wonderful view to the sea. Even the port could be seen. The bench was close to an old park, and if someone had bothered to take care of the park, people would actually like visiting it and eventually the bench would be used, too. But no one took care of the park, and the bench was left to be used by no one but Arthur.

But now there was this boy coming towards the bench, _Arthur's_ bench, looking like going to sit on it. And that would not do. To prevent such actions, Arthur moved a little to sit right in the middle of the bench. Folding his arms he furrowed his eyebrows and stared murderously at the approaching boy. Come what may, Arthur was ready to face it.

The boy stopped in front of the bench and, throwing an odd glance at Arthur, sat down – right next to the English boy.

Arthur stirred in surprise. He had not expected that the boy would actually sit beside him, since that was something the Brit himself would have never done, sitting down next to a stranger. In astonishment, he froze and stared at the other boy.

"What do you want?" he asked suspiciously.

The boy turned his face to Arthur and the English kid could see a pair of eyes as blue as sky. "Nothing."

"Then why are you sitting here?"

The boy looked slightly irritated. "Because I want to," he answered, looking back at the sea.

To that the conversation ended and both boys were just sitting and watching the sea and the ships further in the port. Time passed and eventually Arthur had to go home. He jumped off the bench and shot one last glance at the other boy before walking away, his head held high. The other one stayed at the bench, still gazing at the sea.

On the next day Arthur came back. To his relief, the bench was empty and he sat on it, leaned back and looked at the sea, as usually.

Arthur loved the sea. He loved the brightness of it and he loved the murkiness of it. He enjoyed looking at the ships sailing those wonderful oceans, those enchanting waters...

A tree behind the bench cast a shadow on Arthur and he shivered a little; the summer day was warm but windy. The British boy closed his eyes, smiling, and smelled the air. It smelled so fresh and Arthur could smell the sea and ...lilies? He opened his eyes and saw the boy from previous day coming. He snorted. Not again! This was Arthur's bench, didn't that weirdo get that?

Obviously the said weirdo didn't, because, again, he sat on the bench. They didn't even look at each other and remained silent, since there was really not much to say.

But then the other boy broke the silence. "Then why are _you_ sitting here?"

After considering for a while whether to answer or not, Arthur decided to answer. "I like the sea. And ships."

"Me too."

Arthur looked at the boy. He had a blond hair, blonder than Arthur's, and he looked being around ten or so. A little older than the English boy, anyway.

"You speak funnily," Arthur said.

"I come from another country," the boy explained. "From France."

"Frog."

"Bushy-brow."

"I don't like you."

The other boy shrugged. "That's because you're an idiot." He smiled. "I don't like you, either."

After that, neither of them spoke, and in some time, Arthur had to go home again. But he came back on the next day. And the day after that, and the day after that. Almost every day Arthur went to the bench, and almost every time he met the French boy there. Sometimes Arthur was the first one to come to the bench, sometimes the other boy already was there when he came. The boys never greeted each other when they met. They just sat down and stared at the sea and the ships sailing into horizon. Slowly, they started to talk a little, then a little more. As the weeks and months and years passed, the two of them grew to love talking and arguing with each other.

They talked about anything between the sky and the earth. They talked about history and argued about whose nation's history was more glorious, Arthur's or the French boy's. They talked about the whole world in general, what it used to be, how it was changing all the time, where it was going. They talked about people; they talked about their own dreams and thoughts. They talked about everything...everything save their personal lives. They knew nothing concrete about each other, not even names. The bench, old park and sea all belonged to a different world than their daily lives. Both of the boys felt that connecting each other to normal life would break the magic.

Once, about three years after they had first met, the French boy had asked Arthur's name. "I'll tell you only if you tell yours first," the English boy had answered with a grin, and somehow it became a game; every now and then one of them asked the question again, and the answer was always the same: "I'll tell you only if you tell yours first."

They never left the bench at the same time. When leaving, they told good-nights and byes to each other, but never did they ask where the other one lived or where he was going. To each other, they did not exist outside the magical field of the bench. The city they lived in was big, and meeting there just by chance was impossible.

"Look at the sky," the French boy once said. He was fifteen at that time. "Look how sunset colours the clouds."

Arthur, who was three years younger than his friend, leaned back in the bench. "Beautiful," he commented, meaning it. "Look at that cloud there...that big one. It's like a whale."

"True... Oh, look, that small one reminds me of you."

"_That_ one? It's more like a tortoise!"

The French boy chuckled.

A strong bond had grown between them, and it kept growing every time they laughed, argued, fought or just sat in silence together. So secretly the bond grew, that Arthur didn't even notice it for a long time.

xXx

Francis was sitting on the bench when he saw a young man coming.

It was a cloudy and grey day of May, and the wind was blowing strongly from the sea. The Englishman's short, sandy hair was messy and the wind was not willing to let it be. Francis smiled as the young man tried to keep his hair away from the face, failing. His hair was too short to be tied back, unlike Francis'.

The Englishman slumped on the bench next to Francis. "You look happy today," he commented, eyes on the sea.

"I am," the Frenchman replied. He smiled. "I missed you," he added gently after a moment. To his pleasure, the green eyes turned to face him. Francis never got tired of watching that forest-green shade, especially now when the owner of those eyes had been away for three weeks. "How was your trip?"

A small smile found its way to the Briton's lips. "I really enjoyed it." The green eyes turned to the sea again. "I visited Stonehenge," the Englishman added.

"Oh? Knowing you, you probably tried all kinds of spells there."

The cheeks of the Brit turned slightly pink. Francis noticed it and chuckled. "So you did? Well, did you sense any magic there?"

"I didn't! Try spells, I mean. But there _is_ something special about that place."

"Of course." Francis smiled, yanking his eyes from the Englishman to the sea. But somehow he didn't find it as interesting as the man sitting beside him.

"You don't believe me, do you?" the Englishman snorted. "But it is a special place, in different way than this one, though." The younger man's voice was dreamlike, a little wondering, his eyes staring into the horizon. Francis turned to him again, for a short moment feeling something strange but pleasant in his stomach.

"Oh? So this place is special, too?"

The Brit blinked. "Yes."

Francis leaned a little closer to him. "In which way, special?"

Pink on the younger man's face deepened into darker shade of red. "W-well... I don't know how to... Can't you feel it yourself?"

Francis laughed, leaning back again. "_Oui_, I think I do, _mon Anglais_."

It was true. Francis definitely _did_ feel something special.

xXx

It was a warm day of June, when Arthur waited for the Frenchman on the bench, for nothing. The following day was cloudy and rainy, and Arthur was soaking on the bench, waiting for that damn frog to come, for nothing. The next day was cloudy and windy, but not rainy at least. Arthur was sitting on the bench and wondering if the Frenchman would come on that day.

While waiting, the Brit did a lot of thinking. Something was not like before, and he wanted to figure out what was different and why. Gazing at the murky sea and grey clouds above it, Arthur realized that he was concerned about the frog's well-being. The world was a dangerous place, anything could happen. The Frenchman could have been hit by a car, for example. Or he could have been kidnapped by mafia and being transported somewhere to be sold as a slave at the very moment. Such a... gorgeous man must be attracting a lot of attention.

The wind blew right into Arthur's face, cooling his already cold cheeks even more. A sound of steps on the sandy road made him turn his head and he saw the Frenchman coming. At that moment two waves ran through the Brit: a wave of relief and a wave of realization.

"_Bonjour, mon Anglais_," the Frenchman greeted, sitting on the bench. His long hair was freely dancing with the wind around his elegant face and he laughed, making Arthur's heart squeezing for some reason. "What a wonderful day it is, _non_?"

The Englishman returned the smile. "Yes."

Before Arthur had been coming to his bench not caring at all whether the Frenchman would be there or not, but now... Now it was vice versa. Now he was coming to the bench, _their _bench, hoping to meet the Frenchman there. The bench, the park, the sea and the ships mattered something only when that frog was there, too. When they were together. The speciality of the place, its magic, had somehow moved into the Frenchman.

A sudden, strong gust of wind threw Arthur's short hair in his eyes and he made a small sound of frustration. He shuddered when a cool hand touched his face and caressed the hair away from it. The Brit looked to his right to see the navy eyes looking at him.

"You look serious today," the Frenchman said.

"Mm," Arthur replied. "I was just... thinking."

"About what?"

"I don't know... This place and..." Arthur's voice faded away. "I was wondering what your name is."

A mysterious smile appeared on the lips of the other. "Well then, keep wondering."

The Englishman looked at the sea again. His companion was just like those waters, he thought. Mysterious and deep, full of secrets that no one knew about. "You know, if something happened... If one of us died, for example, the other one would never know. He would just keep coming back here, wondering what had happened to the other one. And even is he saw the other one's grave, he wouldn't know that it was his friend who was lying there, under the ground..."

"_Mon Anglais_..."

"Oh, look at that ship!" Arthur pointed to the sea before the Frenchman would continue with previous topic, suddenly embarrassed of his words. Fuck, he shouldn't have said anything!

The ship Arthur was pointing at was small, more like a boat than a ship, and it was made of wood. It was very simple, but very beautiful and interesting anyway. "I wish I could go sailing on that kind of boat one day," the Brit said with dreamy voice.

"From England to France," the Frenchman said, looking at the ship, too.

"That would be great," Arthur agreed. _With you,_ echoed the unspoken words between them.

"Oh, your cheeks are rosy, are you cold?"

"I have to go." The Brit stood up quickly and firmly. He didn't really know why he was blushing, but he knew it wasn't because of the cold wind. "See you later."

As Arthur stepped away, a hand grabbed his wrist. Heart immediately jumping to his throat the Englishman faced the Frenchman.

"I'm sorry for making you worry," the Frenchman said softly. "I was busy with my work so I couldn't come here for few days. Sorry," he said again.

"No problem," the Brit muttered to the road, not daring to face the other man's eyes. "Well, bye."

And he left, confused, leaving the Frenchman to the bench, to gaze after him with a thoughtful look in his blue eyes.

xXx

Arthur stared in stunned silence at the blond man behind his door. Then his eyes moved to the bouquet of crimson roses that the blonde was holding. Then he looked at the grinning man again. "What?" was all he was able to say.

"I repeat, sir," the blond guy replied. "Nine roses were ordered from us and we were told to deliver them to Arthur Kirkland who should be living in this address. Are you mister Kirkland, sir?"

"I am, but…"

"Then these flowers are for you, sir," the man said. "As I already twice told you." With those words he handed the flowers to the Briton and walked away.

Arthur closed the door of his apartment and smelled the roses. Who would want to send him flowers? His social life wasn't in any shape busy and not many people he knew were a flower-sending type. The Englishman took a vase to the roses and noticed a small card among the flowers. He frowned and took it to look at it more closely. For sure the mysterious sender had written his name?

He had. Unfortunately the name didn't ring a bell to Arthur. On the card was written: _From Matthew with love._

xXx

Francis was humming absently as he walked to the bench, hoping to find his little Englishman there. And he did; there the blond man was sitting. But he looked somewhat antsy; his foot was tapping and he was shifting anxiously, arms folded.

"_Bonjour, mon ami_," Francis greeted the other man, who didn't pay any attention at him. The Brit was staring at the sea, fingers now playing with the edge of his shirt. His eyebrows were little furrowed when he finally turned to face the Frenchman. "Uh, hi," he said, clearly avoiding Francis' eyes, and clearly trying to hide it.

"What is it with you today, my little friend?" the Frenchman asked, trying not to smile. The Englishman looked so _cute_ when nervous.

"Nothing," the other blonde snapped, folding his arms again. Then, when he saw Francis' inquiring expression, he seemed to regret his sharp answer and added in much calmer voice: "Nothing special."

Francis turned to the sea, too. The Brit never told straight away what was bothering him, the Frenchman already knew that. He would talk when he felt ready for it, and if he didn't want to share his worries, Francis wouldn't pressure him. Well, maybe a little, since he believed that talking helped when feeling worried, but usually there was no need for that; apparently the Brit trusted Francis enough to share his mind with him.

This time, too. "Um, frog..?" Francis looked at the younger man beside him. "Yes, _mon Anglais_?" he asked encouragingly.

The Englishman was still staring to the sea, blush creeping over his face. "Is…" He seemed to have great difficulties with forming his words. "I was just wondering if… By any chance, is your name Matthew?"

Francis blinked, surprised. Why did the Brit drop that name, all of the sudden? "Matthew?" he repeated. "No. Where did you get that one from?"

"Forget it…" the other blonde muttered, instantly finding something interesting everywhere but in Francis' direction and making the Frenchman suddenly hope that his name _was_ Matthew and not Francis.

"Why?" he asked.

"I just… happened to wonder if your name was Matthew, that's all."

"I don't believe you."

"Well, fine!" The Englishman spat. "Yeah, I got roses from someone called 'Matthew' and I don't have a faintest idea who the hell is Matthew, so that's why!"

Roses? _His_ Englishman got _roses _from someone else? Francis didn't like the idea. For some reason he didn't like the idea at all.

But. "So you thought those roses were from me? Why?"

The blush on the younger blonde's face made an interesting contrast with his green eyes. "Well, there was written '_from Matthew with love'_, and you happen to be _the only person_ who I know but whose name I _don't_ know, so- so there!" The Brit was almost yelling the last words and Francis wondered why he was so upset and with who. More interested the Frenchman was, however, in one other matter.

"And what makes you think that I would write something like that to you?"

Francis' purpose was not to anger the other man any more than he already was, but the effect of his words came immediately. The Englishman's eyes widened and he jumped up from the bench. "Nothing!" he spat furiously, letting out a short, bitter laughter. "Nothing!" And violently shaking his head, the Brit stormed away, disappearing into the wilderness of the old park.

Francis was left alone on the bench. First he was astonished at the strong reaction of the Englishman, then he loudly cursed himself. How foolish of him; how could he have chosen his words so poorly? Francis' intention had been to find out if his Englishman had some kind of feelings for him, the same kind of feelings that the Frenchman had for the Englishman, but he had made his words sound like he would never do such a thing as writing '_with love_' to the Brit.

Which was the exact opposite of the truth.

Francis got to his feet. Due to his astonishment, it was too late to go after the Englishman. In frustration he let out a bitter laughter, similar to the Brit's one earlier; he was French, he was supposed be a master in the world of love!

Starting slowly walking away Francis could just hope that his Englishman would return to the bench.

xXx

Arthur slammed the door of his apartment closed. "Fuck!" he yelled, burying his burning face in his hands. Fuck that bloody Frenchman! Fuck _himself_ for being such an idiot! Fuck the whole damn world!

_What makes you think I would write something like that to you? _Arthur slid down against the door._ Nothing,_ he had answered, truthfully. Well, mostly truthfully. He hadn't exactly _thought_ the frog to be the one to write those little words, he just... There _had_ been a small possibility, so naturally Arthur had, just by the way, tried it.

The Englishman rubbed his dry eyes with his palms. He wasn't crying, why would he be? Okay, even if he _had_ thought that those roses had been from the Frenchman, what about it? And even if he _had_ thought that that bastard might say him something like '_I love you', _sowhat? And even _if_ he actually had somehow fallen in love with him, _what the hell about it_?

_What makes you think I would write something like that to you? _And what if the Frenchman didn't feel quite the same way as Arthur? Well, shit happens. Cruel world, everybody knew that.

Oh, great. _Now_ he was crying.

xXx

_He'll come, he won't come, he'll come, he won't come...he'll come. _Francis sighed as the last petal fell to the ground. The Englishman had better come, apparently even the nature insisted. Francis threw now bare flower after the final petal, among other flowers that were sharing the same fate, and leaned back, watching the sky. It was a warm and nice summer evening, the kind you didn't see in England too often. It was the second day already without the Brit showing up to the bench. Francis promised himself that if his Englishman would come once more, he wouldn't hesitate. He would close him in his embrace, tell him how much he loved him over and over again and cover him with endless kisses. He wouldn't let him go. Oh no, he would-

All the thoughts in Francis' mind disappeared when he saw a familiar figure coming. The Englishman's steps were slow and hesitant, and he looked everywhere else but at Francis. The Frenchman's lips curved first into a relieved, then somewhat mischievous smile. Ah, it must be a sign from fate him to live up to his promises, right?

The Englishman hesitated for a second before sitting down on the bench. "Hello," he said a little sternly, eyes trained on the sea.

_Here we go._

Francis closed him into his embrace. "Forgive me, _mon_ _cher_," he mumbled into the Brit's hair.

"What-! You-! What are you doing!" The smaller man struggled against the strong arms around him. "And forgive you what?"

"My words the other day, I never meant them like that."

"What words?" the Englishman asked indifferently. Too indifferently, and Francis did mark how red the other one's face was getting. "There is nothing for you to apologise for. _Bloody frog, let me_-"

"There isn't? Then why were you so upset?" Before the Brit could answer, the Frenchman continued. "Let's be honest, _mon_ _cher_." He cupped the other's face and captured the green eyes with his own. Face solemn, Francis brushed the Englishman's flushed cheeks and leaned closer, making their foreheads almost touch. "I love you, _mon petit Anglais. _I love you so much it drives me insane." The other one's face was bright scarlet and the green eyes stared deep into Francis' blue ones. Million thoughts seemed to speed through the Brit's mind, he looked completely lost. Francis smiled gently. "I love you," he said one more time, trying to put everything he felt in those three words.

At some point the smaller man had stopped trying to get away from the other one's arms and now he seemed to be frozen. The Englishman just stared at the Frenchman, lips a little parted, saying nothing. Francis, instead, stared at those lips, imagining how it would feel like to kiss them, first softly, then more and more passionate until the world around didn't exist anymore... But why wasn't his beloved saying anything? Getting worried, Francis yanked his eyes from the tempting lips to the emerald eyes, searching for the answer. Was he mistaken, didn't the Brit have any feelings to him?

xXx

Arthur felt like he couldn't breathe at all. Not when the Frenchman was looking at him like that. He tried to speak but couldn't find any words, although there were only three of them he wanted to say. _Calm down_, he told himself. _Breathe_... Taking a slow breath in and then letting it out, Arthur tried to speak again. "I'm Arthur," he said quietly but firmly, looking at the Frenchman. "And- and you better be serious about what you just said, becaummm..." He wasn't given a chance to finish his sentence, since the Frenchman's lips covered his owns.

Arthur tensed at first, but as the arms around him slowly and gently pulled him even closer and the lips softly moved against his owns, he relaxed and returned the kiss.

"_Je_ _t'aime_, Arthur," the Frenchman muttered into the kiss, licking the Englishman's lips and making him shudder. "My name is Francis."

_Francis_...

How could a kiss be as tender as this one? Arthur felt he was going to melt, and when _Francis_ coaxed him to part his lips he didn't resist. A long, breathy moan escaped from somewhere deep in his throat and he wrapped his arms around the Frenchman. The other man's body was warm against Arthur's, and he could smell the faint aroma of lilies, the familiar smell of Francis. Arthur almost couldn't believe that the moment was real, not just a sweet daydream. _If this is a dream, I'll kill myself if I wake up, _a vague thought flashed in his mind. _Just like this, forever..._

Everything around them disappeared.

xXx

Francis stretched luxuriously in his bed and opened his eyes. The sunny morning (well, almost midday) promised the day to become a perfect one, and the Frenchman got quickly from the bed. He didn't want to lose any time; he was going to meet _his_ Arthur at the bench.

The last evening had been almost dreamlike. After they had broken their first kiss to breath, Arthur had just rested his head against the Frenchman's chest and they had watched the sea and the ships, like they had done million times before. And they had kissed again, and again and again, softly and passionately, gently and roughly. They hadn't spoken much, mostly just repeated three certain words that they couldn't get tired of. They had stayed like that until the nightfall, and that was when they had finally parted, agreeing to meet each other on the next day.

Francis couldn't help but hum when he made his way to the bench. How grateful he was that he had found that park and the bench and the little Englishman sitting on it!

But when Francis got to the bench, the man he found sitting on it was not Arthur. Dissatisfied, the Frenchman sat on the other side of the bench and waited for his Englishman to come. After about half an hour the other man left and Francis smiled happily. Arthur wouldn't have liked any intruders in their special place.

That day, Arthur didn't show up. Francis waited as long as he could, but the Englishman never came. Worried, he finally had to leave, but he came back on the following day. He waited the whole day there, on the bench, but the Englishman stayed away. Francis cursed to himself; where had his sense been when Arthur and he had told their names? Why hadn't he asked where the Brit lived, or at least his surname? Or his phone number. Just the first name wouldn't help at all in finding someone in the big city they lived in.

Just waiting was gut-wrenching, but there was nothing else Francis could do. He came back again on the third day after their first kiss, only to find that the Brit wasn't there.

"_You know, if something happened... If one of us died, for example, the other one would never know. He would just keep coming back here, wondering what had happened to the other one. And even is he saw the other one's grave, he wouldn't know that it was his friend who was lying there, under the ground..." _Arthur's words from some time ago flashed in the Frenchman's mind. A desperate groan broke free from his throat. How right the Brit had been! Francis should have had believed him then and told his name, whole name, and everything else about himself, not continued their stupid I-won't-tell-you-anything-about-myself -game. Now he was paying for his foolery: worrying and worrying and worrying. What had happened to Arthur? What if he had got into accident and was now lying in the hospital... or died? Or... Francis shuddered. Arthur couldn't be staying away on purpose, couldn't he? If he, despite his confession of love the other day, had changed his mind and didn't want to see Francis anymore? It couldn't be that. It could never be that...right?

On the fourth day Francis came back to the bench. As soon as he was close enough, he stopped in shock.

First he saw that the bench wasn't empty; there were few men walking around the place. Then he realized that there was no bench anymore. And then he noticed two trucks behind the trees of the park. The whole area was surrounded with fence.

_What the hell was happening?_ Francis made his way to the nearest man, who appeared to be the same that he had seen a couple of days ago on the bench. "Hello," he said. "I'm sorry but what is going on here?"

The man turned to him and smiled kindly. "We are extending this old park."

"Extending?"

"Yes." The man gestured around the place. "This place is perfect! The sea and the park, this'll become very popular with the citizens." Not noticing Francis' shocked face, the man continued speaking, getting more and more excited with every word. "We'll extend the park up to this point, and here will be road so that people can walk and watch the sea. We'll put benches along the road every twenty meters. And this park will definitely be taken care of! It's a shame no one has done it before."

Francis stood still, watching working men. Then his eyes wandered to the man he was talking with. His eyes stopped on the name tape on his shirt. _Matthew_. "I see," he said slowly. "Well, goodbye. Have a nice day."

Feeling somehow _empty_, Francis walked away. He felt anger growing inside of him. Those men didn't have the right to ruin that place! And that man, Matthew. '_From Matthew with love_.' Was he the one who approached _his_ Arthur with flowers the other day? Francis closed his fists. Was that man trying to steal the most important things in Francis' life? He didn't have the right to do that!

_And where was Arthur?_ The Frenchman felt his heart painfully squeezing in his chest. If something had happened to him... Well. Francis sighed. As the Englishman once said, he would keep coming to the... Francis stopped. Except that he wouldn't. The bench was gone and the whole place was fenced. Neither Francis nor the Briton could come back there anymore.

Something suddenly died inside the Frenchman. He could literally _feel_ something important, something very precious slipping away, forever out of his reach.

xXx

Arthur turned away and let his feet to take him wherever they wanted. He couldn't believe his eyes; he was gone for few days (he had had a terribly high fever and couldn't get to see Francis) and when he finally came back, all there was to see was how his special world was taken away from him. How his Frenchman was turned just into a distant dream, never to be caught again.

It seemed that it was time to wake up into reality and realize that there were no other different, special worlds; just this cold and lonely one, where fairy tales such as Francis' and his didn't exist.

xXx

Arthur looked at the paper in his hand and read it through again. Then he read the name of the café he was standing in front of. Yes, he should be in the right place.

Almost two months had passed after the secret place of Francis and Arthur was destroyed and turned into a very beautiful but very soulless park. Arthur had never been there after it was changed. It was turned into completely something else, and its original magical spirit was gone. And more importantly, Francis was no longer there, either.

Arthur made sure his tie was tied properly; he didn't want to appear sloppy in front of an interviewer. His new friend Matthew (the very same who had sent Arthur roses; later Arthur discovered that Matthew had sent flowers to everyone who lived in the apartment house because he was moving in) had told him about this café and that the staff was looking for new people, and since Arthur was unemployed at the moment he had decided to take the chance. Once more the Englishman checked everything from the paper: at one o'clock in the room number six, Mr. Bonnefoy's office.

Arthur stepped in.

X


End file.
